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Being Bob
Act XIX, Scene I
"Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial." ~ Othello, Act II, Scene III
Bob shifted in his seat, patting his hair self-consciously. He'd done his best with the blow-dryer the motel had provided, but his hair was still damp in places. At least it had great volume. He'd cleaned himself up as best he could in preparation for the job interview; a trip to the salon, a mani-pedi, a shave – hell, he had even gone so far as to do a bit of manscaping. Not that he had much to work with in the first place, given that he had the body hair of a barely pubescent teenager.
Bob drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair. It was difficult to affect an air of calm when he was so nervous. Anxiety and heartburn combined to form blazing butterflies in his stomach. He hadn't felt this way since prom night – a night he had spent in the hospital due to a previously undetected heart condition, which was well under control now thanks to his father's diligent care and his mother's healthy cooking. That, and the nitroglycerin. Bob thought it ironic that the medicine needed to soothe his harried heart doubled as an explosive. It was the sort of thought that tickled his dark fancy.
A mountain of a man trudged into the room, stopped, and stared at Bob. He was a solid wall of equal parts muscle and fat encased in a black t-shirt and jeans, obviously a bouncer. Bob stared back at him impassively, unsure whether he was meant to feel intimidated by the man's vast presence or not.
"You Robert Underdunk?" the bouncer spoke at last.
Bob hesitated. "Er, actually, it's Terwilliger. Robert Terwilliger."
The bouncer smirked. "Well I'm looking for Underdunk." He turned to walk away.
Bob stood up. "Underdunk is my mother's surname," he explained quickly. "I prefer not to use it in certain situations out of respect for her. My proper name is Robert Underdunk Terwilliger."
The bouncer looked him over as if to decide whether he fit the lofty moniker or not. "Right. Come on, then." He waved a beefy paw in the direction of the hallway he had emerged from moments before.
Again, Bob hesitated, then frowned. "If I may ask, how do you know my mother's name? I am quite certain I didn't include it on the application."
The bouncer's shoulders rippled in a torrential shrug. "Boss likes to do thorough background checks on employees. C'mon."
Bob followed him down a narrow hallway, silently fuming. The very idea that if word got out about the type of job he was applying for caused a queasy little knot to form in his stomach amidst the burning butterflies that had already taken up residence there. The only thing Bob feared more than the reaction of his mother's adoring fans was the woman herself.
Dame Judith Underdunk was not a force to be reckoned with. Bob had long ago vowed never to tarnish her name. Unfortunately, neither the American justice system nor the entertainment industry shared his sentiments. While Terwilliger wasn't exactly a common name, there were still plenty of people who shared it and nothing else with Bob. No family ties, no blood, nothing. His mother's family, on the other hand, were the last known Underdunks in the entire United Kingdom. It was both an honor and a burden to bear the name.
At the end of the hall, the bouncer opened a door, then stood aside with his hand on the knob, gesturing for Bob to enter the room. Bob squeezed past him, thankful that he had managed to lose his own upholstery in prison, as it was a tight squeeze in spite of his twiggy frame.
The door shut behind him, leaving him in a small, windowless office with one other occupant. Behind a desk bearing the name Candace Hartley, Owner & Proprietor on a plaque sat a classy-looking woman of indeterminate age. For all Bob knew, she could have been his sister or his aunt. Though dressed conservatively, her smart business suit hugged her fit, curvy figure when she stood up to greet him.
"Mister Underdunk?" she asked, arching an expertly threaded eyebrow.
Bob resisted giving her a death glare for using that name and forced a jovial smile.
"Underdunk-Terwilliger, to be precise, though for the time being I would prefer simply Terwilliger."
Ms. Hartley seemed not to have heard him as she was currently not meeting his gaze.
"You didn't tell me about your… hair," she said, staring openly at it.
Bob's face fell. "Is it too long? Too curly?"
"Not at all! Long hair is very in right now, and there's definitely a niche market for curls, but the color…" she grimaced. "How do I put this delicately… gingers don't exactly do it for our clientele."
Bob frowned. "Have you ever actually had a redhead in your employ?"
"Well, no, but to tell you the truth, this is the first time I've had one apply." She studied his face. "You're so pale, though. Maybe if you got a tan –"
Bob smirked. "You do realize you're talking to a ginger, right?"
The woman smirked back. "Right. Are you Irish?"
Bob refrained from rolling his eyes. Americans and their ridiculous stereotypes.
"English. However, my father is Irish on his mother's side, and my mother is Scottish on her father's side."
"Well, you've got a sexy voice and accent, Mr. Terwilliger. It's only a shame our clients won't be hearing it."
"Am I not allowed to speak?" Bob asked, incredulous.
Ms. Hartley chuckled. "Honey, you're here to be seen, not heard. Now, if you'd still like to audition, I'm all eyes." She sat back down. "Show me what you've got!"
Bob hesitated and took a deep breath, assuming an air of dignity as he began to unbutton his shirt. Ms. Hartley eyed his pale, smooth chest and abdomen as they were slowly revealed to her.
"Hmm, kinda scrawny… but keep going," she said when Bob paused to look at her. "I like to see the whole enchilada before I say no."
Bob smirked, wondering if women in his position were subject to the same scrutiny. Surely they were. After untucking his shirt and undoing the last button, his hands paused over his belt buckle. This was it. The point of no return. The predatory gleam in the woman's eye was slightly unnerving, but Bob soldiered on, unbuckling his belt and dropping his pants with a flourish.
Ms. Hartley's jaw dropped. After an uncomfortably long moment of saucer-eyed staring, she stood and thrust her hand out to shake Bob's.
"Congratulations, Mr. Terwilliger!" she said to his manhood. "You've got the job!"
Bob blushed, wishing she would look him in the eyes instead. "Er, thank you, but I'd rather not shake hands while I'm so… exposed."
"Oh, don't worry about that, hun," Ms. Hartley purred, finally making eye contact. The wanton look she gave him made him wish she were staring at his crotch again. "You've got a very impressive 'employment package' there. I wouldn't fret about it if I were you. Not when you're going to flaunting it onstage two nights a week. Now tell me: can you dance?"
Bob looked affronted. "Can I dance? Madam, I'll have you know that I took six years of ballet and four years of –"
"Alright, alright," she said. "Less talky, more dancy." She sat down again, settling back in her chair. "And remember, you're gonna have dozens of drunk, horny women – and men – watching your every move, so make love to your audience."
Scene II
By the time the audition ended, Bob felt cheap, yet relieved. Relieved that it was over, and relieved that he had gotten the job. The extra source of income was a source of self-loathing as well. He chastised himself for stooping so low, but was it really any more degrading than working for Krusty the Clown had been?
On the contrary, he assured himself. It will be almost liberating in comparison. Of course, some would beg to differ. His mother, for one.
On the bus ride back to the motel, all he could think about was what she would say, if only she knew. He doubted his father and brother would care. Well, Robert Senior probably would be a tad disturbed to learn that his eldest son and namesake was a stripper. And Cecil would likely have a hearty laugh at Bob's expense. But Judith?
Bob sighed. If she wasn't such a strong, fierce woman, the news would probably kill her. If she didn't kill him first.

Act XX: nevuela.deviantart.com/art/Bei…

Description

Being Bob
Act XIX, Scene I
"Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial." ~ Othello, Act II, Scene III
Bob shifted in his seat, patting his hair self-consciously. He'd done his best with the blow-dryer the motel had provided, but his hair was still damp in places. At least it had great volume. He'd cleaned himself up as best he could in preparation for the job interview; a trip to the salon, a mani-pedi, a shave – hell, he had even gone so far as to do a bit of manscaping. Not that he had much to work with in the first place, given that he had the body hair of a barely pubescent teenager.
Bob drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair. It was difficult to affect an air of calm when he was so nervous. Anxiety and heartburn combined to form blazing butterflies in his stomach. He hadn't felt this way since prom night – a night he had spent in the hospital due to a previously undetected heart condition, which was well under control now thanks to his father's diligent care and his mother's healthy cooking. That, and the nitroglycerin. Bob thought it ironic that the medicine needed to soothe his harried heart doubled as an explosive. It was the sort of thought that tickled his dark fancy.
A mountain of a man trudged into the room, stopped, and stared at Bob. He was a solid wall of equal parts muscle and fat encased in a black t-shirt and jeans, obviously a bouncer. Bob stared back at him impassively, unsure whether he was meant to feel intimidated by the man's vast presence or not.
"You Robert Underdunk?" the bouncer spoke at last.
Bob hesitated. "Er, actually, it's Terwilliger. Robert Terwilliger."
The bouncer smirked. "Well I'm looking for Underdunk." He turned to walk away.
Bob stood up. "Underdunk is my mother's surname," he explained quickly. "I prefer not to use it in certain situations out of respect for her. My proper name is Robert Underdunk Terwilliger."
The bouncer looked him over as if to decide whether he fit the lofty moniker or not. "Right. Come on, then." He waved a beefy paw in the direction of the hallway he had emerged from moments before.
Again, Bob hesitated, then frowned. "If I may ask, how do you know my mother's name? I am quite certain I didn't include it on the application."
The bouncer's shoulders rippled in a torrential shrug. "Boss likes to do thorough background checks on employees. C'mon."
Bob followed him down a narrow hallway, silently fuming. The very idea that if word got out about the type of job he was applying for caused a queasy little knot to form in his stomach amidst the burning butterflies that had already taken up residence there. The only thing Bob feared more than the reaction of his mother's adoring fans was the woman herself.
Dame Judith Underdunk was not a force to be reckoned with. Bob had long ago vowed never to tarnish her name. Unfortunately, neither the American justice system nor the entertainment industry shared his sentiments. While Terwilliger wasn't exactly a common name, there were still plenty of people who shared it and nothing else with Bob. No family ties, no blood, nothing. His mother's family, on the other hand, were the last known Underdunks in the entire United Kingdom. It was both an honor and a burden to bear the name.
At the end of the hall, the bouncer opened a door, then stood aside with his hand on the knob, gesturing for Bob to enter the room. Bob squeezed past him, thankful that he had managed to lose his own upholstery in prison, as it was a tight squeeze in spite of his twiggy frame.
The door shut behind him, leaving him in a small, windowless office with one other occupant. Behind a desk bearing the name Candace Hartley, Owner & Proprietor on a plaque sat a classy-looking woman of indeterminate age. For all Bob knew, she could have been his sister or his aunt. Though dressed conservatively, her smart business suit hugged her fit, curvy figure when she stood up to greet him.
"Mister Underdunk?" she asked, arching an expertly threaded eyebrow.
Bob resisted giving her a death glare for using that name and forced a jovial smile.
"Underdunk-Terwilliger, to be precise, though for the time being I would prefer simply Terwilliger."
Ms. Hartley seemed not to have heard him as she was currently not meeting his gaze.
"You didn't tell me about your… hair," she said, staring openly at it.
Bob's face fell. "Is it too long? Too curly?"
"Not at all! Long hair is very in right now, and there's definitely a niche market for curls, but the color…" she grimaced. "How do I put this delicately… gingers don't exactly do it for our clientele."
Bob frowned. "Have you ever actually had a redhead in your employ?"
"Well, no, but to tell you the truth, this is the first time I've had one apply." She studied his face. "You're so pale, though. Maybe if you got a tan –"
Bob smirked. "You do realize you're talking to a ginger, right?"
The woman smirked back. "Right. Are you Irish?"
Bob refrained from rolling his eyes. Americans and their ridiculous stereotypes.
"English. However, my father is Irish on his mother's side, and my mother is Scottish on her father's side."
"Well, you've got a sexy voice and accent, Mr. Terwilliger. It's only a shame our clients won't be hearing it."
"Am I not allowed to speak?" Bob asked, incredulous.
Ms. Hartley chuckled. "Honey, you're here to be seen, not heard. Now, if you'd still like to audition, I'm all eyes." She sat back down. "Show me what you've got!"
Bob hesitated and took a deep breath, assuming an air of dignity as he began to unbutton his shirt. Ms. Hartley eyed his pale, smooth chest and abdomen as they were slowly revealed to her.
"Hmm, kinda scrawny… but keep going," she said when Bob paused to look at her. "I like to see the whole enchilada before I say no."
Bob smirked, wondering if women in his position were subject to the same scrutiny. Surely they were. After untucking his shirt and undoing the last button, his hands paused over his belt buckle. This was it. The point of no return. The predatory gleam in the woman's eye was slightly unnerving, but Bob soldiered on, unbuckling his belt and dropping his pants with a flourish.
Ms. Hartley's jaw dropped. After an uncomfortably long moment of saucer-eyed staring, she stood and thrust her hand out to shake Bob's.
"Congratulations, Mr. Terwilliger!" she said to his manhood. "You've got the job!"
Bob blushed, wishing she would look him in the eyes instead. "Er, thank you, but I'd rather not shake hands while I'm so… exposed."
"Oh, don't worry about that, hun," Ms. Hartley purred, finally making eye contact. The wanton look she gave him made him wish she were staring at his crotch again. "You've got a very impressive 'employment package' there. I wouldn't fret about it if I were you. Not when you're going to flaunting it onstage two nights a week. Now tell me: can you dance?"
Bob looked affronted. "Can I dance? Madam, I'll have you know that I took six years of ballet and four years of –"
"Alright, alright," she said. "Less talky, more dancy." She sat down again, settling back in her chair. "And remember, you're gonna have dozens of drunk, horny women – and men – watching your every move, so make love to your audience."
Scene II
By the time the audition ended, Bob felt cheap, yet relieved. Relieved that it was over, and relieved that he had gotten the job. The extra source of income was a source of self-loathing as well. He chastised himself for stooping so low, but was it really any more degrading than working for Krusty the Clown had been?
On the contrary, he assured himself. It will be almost liberating in comparison. Of course, some would beg to differ. His mother, for one.
On the bus ride back to the motel, all he could think about was what she would say, if only she knew. He doubted his father and brother would care. Well, Robert Senior probably would be a tad disturbed to learn that his eldest son and namesake was a stripper. And Cecil would likely have a hearty laugh at Bob's expense. But Judith?
Bob sighed. If she wasn't such a strong, fierce woman, the news would probably kill her. If she didn't kill him first.

Act XX: nevuela.deviantart.com/art/Bei…